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Osric stepped into the tired little consultation room. The place was lit with new electric lights far too bright for his liking. There was an examination table against the wall. Miscellaneous medical paraphernalia was scattered about, looking both curative and foreboding, rather like Fairhrim herself.

Her travelling cloak was clasped shut with a silver wing. She removed it to reveal her stiff Haelan dress, high about the neck and impeccably white, save for the sharp silver epaulettes.

“Also,” said Osric, removing his own cloak, “I’m not at your beck and call. Don’t summon me like this again.”

Fairhrim grew rigid. She turned to him and spoke with a false sort of brightness. “Oh? And I’m at yours, am I? You can impose meetings on me, in abandoned barns, at midnight, without offering me any kind of alternative, but meeting during perfectly normal hours under a perfectly well-thought-out pretext in a perfectly suitable location presents difficulties, does it? I showed your schedule the same respect you showed mine; didn’t you like it?”

She fixed him with a Look. Osric developed a new understanding of whatgimlet-eyedmeant.

Osric decided not to die on this particular hill. “Perhaps we can each make improvements to our scheduling habits when it comes to the other’s calendar.”

“A compromise?” asked Fairhrim.

“Yes,” said Osric, assuming that this was a positive thing.

It was not. Fairhrim sniffed in Osric’s direction, as though manure from the barn still wafted from him. “I’ve compromised enough just being here today. But, nevertheless, we can compromise. Now, disrobe.”

“I—what?”

“Disrobe,” repeated Fairhrim. Then, slower: “Remove your clothes. There are gowns in the cupboard. I’ll be back in a minute.”

She left the room before Osric could make an argument. Nudity inthe face of her ongoing animosity felt unwise. But refusal felt—well, pathetic. She was only a Haelan and she was by herself.

Was she by herself? What if she came back with a Warden when he was stark bollock naked? She reeked of hostility.

He would keep his weapons close at hand.

Osric began to undress. This was no small task. After much unclipping, unbelting, and unstrapping, he removed the following inventory from his person: twelve throwing knives, his blaecblade, two backswords, one amputator, and, finally, a dozen syringes and vials containing substances as nasty as they were illegal.

These items he placed upon the examination table with care.

He was less precious about his clothes: waistcoat, shirt, collar, cravat, trousers, underthings, and boots were all tossed towards a chair.

Osric opened the cupboard to discover that the gowns were, judging by their colour and size, intended for little girls, rather than men who liked to cultivate an air of sinister elegance.

He pulled a faded pink thing on, which, when placed over his head, left his dangly bits exposed.

He decided to wrap the gown around his hips like some sort of kilt.

Thus attired, he leaned against a cabinet, looking as suave as one could in a strip of puce-coloured linen, to await Fairhrim’s return.

He felt, once again, that Fairhrim was taking the piss. No one took the piss out of Osric Mordaunt with this level of frequency and nonchalance. She was lucky that she was necessary to him at this moment; he would’ve murdered her for the cheek otherwise.

The Means to an End knocked, and her crisp voice asked, “Ready?”

“Yes,” said Osric. Should the Haelan have brought company to attack him while he was naked, he had throwing knives threaded between his fingers.

Fairhrim swept into the room. Her hard eyes passed over Osric and rested on his knife-bristling fists.

“Really?” was her unimpressed comment. “I can assure you that if I’d planned any harm to you, it would’ve happened already.”

Well. That was cocky.

“You’ve got a high opinion of yourself,” said Osric.

“Deserved, I assure you,” said Fairhrim. She jutted her chin towards his gown. “That is quite the ensemble.”

“Fetching, isn’t it?”